


In These Divides, Where You and I Collide

by stevebuckysexual (destieldemon)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anyways, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, My First Fanfic, My First Smut, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Shower Sex, Smut, So yeah, and my mom, bye, definitely, i am ashamed, i shouldve been spending my time doing homework not writing fanfic about two supersoldiers doin it, i want to take a moment to apologize to the good lord jesus, ish, mainly Steves POV, my english teacher, technically, then its mainly Buckys, there is shameful smut in here, this isnt the same thing, until shower scene, well you know how they say shameless smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:17:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destieldemon/pseuds/stevebuckysexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's somewhere off in the world, tearing down HYDRA bases one by one. With no trail for Steve to follow, he waits, hoping Bucky will choose to come back on his own. He's partly convinced it won't happen- until finally, it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In These Divides, Where You and I Collide

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be honest here- if I came across this in the archive, I'd probably skip over it. Not necessarily because it's bad, but it's just not what I usually read. Hell, I've never written anything like this before, actually. I like more plot, I think; more action. But this is more down-low. First time putting anything on this website, too. Anyways, hope you enjoy :)

_"Cause I'm with you til' the end of the line."_

_The other man stares down at him, horror overtaking his features, his fist uncurling and his eyes unblinking. Through his speechlessness he tries to find the right words- but he's too late- pieces of the helicarrier begin to crumble down, falling onto them, and the floor beneath them gives out. One of the men grabs a hold of the metal above him, saving him from a violent fall, but the other man goes down. The cold air rushes past him as he sinks lower and lower into the sky, heading down into an expansive ocean that waits for him below. The first man watches him fall, down, down, down, and the second hits the water with a disorienting force. Bits of metal and scrap sink down in the water to offer their company, and on an accidental inhale, water rushes into his lungs. A fire ignites in the back of his throat, but he can't scream out- for help, or forgiveness, or him- and a panic forces it's way in, sending him into a coughing fit which only aids in worsening the situation. He's reminded of old asthma attacks and nights far too cold for him to tolerate- and he's reminded of loneliness, and insecurity, and the days where there was far too much rain for him to stand. He's reminded of how people would always say that when you died, there was a light. Some sort of beam or ray in the distance, something to lead you to where you need to go, and something to lead you home. He doesn't see a light, now, just darkening waters and sorrowful memories._

_He sinks down, and the water gets darker,_

_darker,_

_darker-_

             Steve shoots up on his couch, gasp lodged in his throat and Bucky's name on his lips- and he's above water now, air surrounding at all around, but he still finds it hard to breathe as he tries to set his mind right. He lets the name fall off his tongue like a prayer- a small sound of ' _Bucky_ -' dropping on an exhale. He sits up properly, his movements slow, as he swings his legs over the side and set his elbows on his knees. He buries his face in his hands, forcing himself to breathe- _in, out… in, out…_ -a slow process that leads him back to some feeling of normalcy, or as close to normalcy as Steve feels he will ever be able to get. He rests like that for a minute, letting his heartbeat slow and his breathing even out, focusing on that rather than on his reoccurring dream- nightmare, he thinks. He rubs his eyes. He exhales again, letting his senses drop from high alert and his body sag against the worn cushions.

             He shakes his head. He looks up, over to the window, and sees the beginnings of dawn pouring through the glass. The room is dark, quiet- and it reminds Steve of being underwater, of sinking down and not being able to call out- and a shiver runs down his spine. The digital clock across the room reads _5:47 AM_ , and he waits for a moment, preparing himself, before he pushes himself off from the sofa and onto his bare feet. He stretches tall and wide, hearing certain creaks in certain joints and feeling the unwinding of his muscles. He breathes into it, a small noise emitting from the back of his throat. Then he relaxes, and looks to the window again. Fragments of the nightmare and the memory it's based off of still swirl around in his mind, and the silence of his apartment still reminds him of drowning. He needs an escape, needs a distraction- and he moves. After a few more minutes, he's on his way out the door, with his running gear on and emotions threatening to go overload.

             He runs faster than usual that day. He still doesn't really know just what he's running from.

             Later that day, after having a long hot shower and changing into clean clothes, Steve finds that he still can't be alone in his apartment. The solitude threatens to choke him more and more with every passing second, and it's well past sunrise when he makes his way out of the building again. He glances at an overhead clock briefly before the door slams shut behind him- _9:34_ , it reads. He steps out into the sunlight. A cool morning breeze whips through the atmosphere, left over from the cold dawn from a few hours before, and Steve wraps his jacket around himself a little tighter. He looks down at himself, and smiles at what Natasha always calls his 'grandpa clothes'- but it's comfortable, he thinks, and familiar, even if he's used to wearing such clothes in extremely smaller sizes. And yes, it's been a while since he changed- but he still thinks that this is something he'll never be able to fully get used to. His smile falters, only a little, and he looks up to the sky. White clouds stray across the expanse of baby blue, the colors complimenting each other and creating a peaceful scene. He inhales the fresh air. He walks away.

          Even with his extensive run that morning, he doesn't feel any leftover ache in his muscles- no soreness or stiffness- just a pleasant undefined strength in every step as he weaves his way through large crowds and moves away into a different direction when a few people here and there begin to recognize him. He feels eyes on him, wherever he goes, but something in him tells him it's not a stranger in the crowd. Maybe he's going insane- and really, that wouldn't surprise him at this point- but a feeling creeps up his spine just the way it did back when he and Bucky lived together, in their cramped apartment. He had always known when Bucky was looking at him, and Bucky almost always looked at him back then. He never really knew why, was always worried there was something on his face or wrong with his clothes- but eventually he just stopped focusing so much on it. Got used to his blue-eyed gaze, and did his best not to draw any conclusions. Steve knew deep down that he'd hoped Bucky looked because he wanted something more, wanted what Steve wanted but refused to let himself acknowledge, but every time, he stamped down the flames of hope that would ignite in his chest at the thought. There was enough wrong with his chest back then, and he didn't need to add hope and heartbreak to that list. So instead of drawing conclusions, he simply let himself draw Bucky- his eyes, his lips, his nose, his hands- the expanse of flesh and bone on his back and the dimples at the bottom of his curving spine- and he never let Bucky see the drawings, either, always hid them away and fell even more in love when Bucky didn't push him to show him his work.

             Old habits die hard, Steve acknowledges as he did what he'd always done before- stamps down the beginnings of hope that bloom in his chest, and then reminds himself that no, Bucky's not here. He's been feeling that gaze on him often, the weight of blue eyes falling heavy onto his skin. He thinks of all the Hydra bases being torn down in the recent months, many of them crumbled and all of them far apart- and nobody has a doubt to who's doing it, no one would deny that it's the precise work of a certain solider-turned-assassin. And Steve would be out of here in a second under different circumstances, if there was a trail for him to follow he'd go down it sprinting. But each location is random. The first report of a fallen Hydra base was in Germany, which isn't all that surprising if Steve considers it- but then after that the next was in South Korea, and then another in Brazil, and then another in Iceland, and there's been so many more since then, with the most recent being in Libya. He's everywhere, wherever he is, and that's exactly why Steve refuses to let himself hope. He's not really here; not now. Maybe at some other point in the future, but not now. All Steve wants to do is wait for him to come back. Even though he tosses away the notion that Bucky's here now, he doesn't know if he'll be able to let go of the idea of Bucky coming back at some point in the distance.

             So he ignores the chills running through him, not caused by the weather but by a pair of imagined eyes, and continues forward.

             He makes his way down winding streets, doing his best to blend in with the crowd and for the most part, failing, but he smiles when at one point a little girl runs past with a Captain America shirt on, too excited to really notice the people around her. He looks at the shops as he passes, some of the buildings familiar from decades ago, before any of this really began, even if most of the logos and signs hanging above their doors are foreign to him. Some of the businesses claim to have been here since the 30's and 40's, proudly proclaiming it in bold red letters painted onto their windows, but Steve couldn't honestly say he remembers them, or had seen them there before. He walks past a building that used to be a bar, on the corner with it's doors open, and when Steve backs up to see it better, he read's ' _Julie's Bakery_ ' and smiles. He looks at a display of cakes in the window, standing tall and layered with intricate designs traced into the frosting and applied in fondant, in many different colors and themes. He chuckles softly when he sees an American theme. Red, white, and blue are the only colors applied, and stars twist around in a rising spiral, starting at the bottom until reaching the top, where a small paper flag sticks out attached to a toothpick. He pauses, before looking up again, and nodding softly to himself. He steps through the door of the bakery.

             When he leaves again, feeling nostalgic with a small cake box in hand, he begins to head back the way he came. He's walked longer than he thought, and farther too, but it's no strain. On the corner, he looks back towards the bakery. He doesn't fully know how he recognized the place, with it using completely different colors and having undergone extensive remodeling sometime between Steve's adolescence and the point when he came back from the ice. The colors are bright now, pinks and greens and soft blues, when before it had consisted of deep browns and dark reds. It had a large round table in the space where there used to be a few small booths lined up against the far wall, where he and Bucky had sat together while Bucky looked at dames and Steve looked at Bucky. And it was wonderful, really, the warm atmosphere and lively chatter as people entered the building to find shelter from the snow. Bucky had pulled him in there in the first place because _'-can't have you dying on me now Rogers, you help with the rent. If you were gone, then where would I be?'_ before Bucky grabbed the sleeve of his old, worn coat and made him follow him inside. When he let go, his fingertips brushed against Steve's hand, the action soft enough to be an accident. Steve had never considered it could have been anything otherwise.

             He sighs, he turns, and he walks on.

             It's another hour before Steve gets back, shutting the door behind him and ignoring the sudden silence pounding in his skull, as he goes into the kitchen and sets the cake box into an empty space in the fridge. He doesn't want it, not right now, and he moves to open the windows, letting fresh air in and hopefully a little sound. He heads into the living room and turns on his TV- something be hardly ever does- just to have the background noise. Some weird show is on, with some black-haired kid riding around on a broomstick, a strange scar on his forehead- and really Steve just doesn't want to know anyways, so he sighs and turns to look around the room. It's tidy, he notes, nothing there for him to clean up and distract him. He tries to think if there's anything for him to do, but his pop culture list is pretty much all done- except for the Star Wars thing, because he didn't really get into it much, which Natasha had threatened him over, saying she would- well, Steve didn't really know what she was saying, because halfway through her sentence she started speaking in angry Russian, and Steve had decided to leave that one alone. It sounded terrifying, whatever it was, so he high-tailed it out of there the first chance he'd gotten. He's still got the DVD's on a wooden shelf on the other side of the room, the others beside the first still unopened. He looks at the TV again, a part of him still wary of the contraption. The kid on the TV breaks his arm falling off his broom. Some weird guy wearing robes does some sort of spell, and the boy's arm flops down, now boneless. Steve huffs. He doesn't understand in the slightest what's going on, but he goes to sit down on the couch and sinks against the cushions. Might as well use this as a way to pass the time.

             About three hours and a box of cold pizza later, Steve watches the movie on the screen with laser-like precision. Personally, he'd found the previous one to be better, but he liked this one too- something about a goblet on fire, and he doesn't completely understand it, but it's entertaining nonetheless- he jumps slightly when a dragon flies up from out of no where and attacks Harry. Somewhere during this he texts Natasha, telling her how great these movies are, and she curses him for his movie tastes, threatening to come over and force him to watch every Star Wars movie in a row, non-stop, using the force- and Steve messages back _'just force, there's no 'the' in there'_ to point out the bad grammar, and he really doesn't understand why she gets so annoyed at him from that. She stops replying after that, and that was over an hour and a half ago.

             That's why he's surprised when he hears a knock on the door. Surely, if Natasha had decided to come before, she'd be here already. And Sam's out of the state right now, on vacation with his boyfriend Riley- they've been together for a few months now, and Steve thinks he's nice enough. Fury wouldn't even bother to knock, and he can't think of anyone else who would want to visit him in the first place. He stands up and reluctantly switches the movie off, just in case it's important- and he hopes it's not, so he can come back and turn it on again. He doesn't want a new assignment that involves leaving his apartment. He doesn't want to save the world. He wants to watch TV, even if he still doesn't fully trust it just yet. He pads towards the door, scratching the back of his neck, before turning the handle and letting the door swing open.

             And it's not Natasha or Sam or Fury or anyone else- it's Bucky, and Steve's breath catches in his throat.

             He opens his mouth to say something, but then he fully takes in his appearance. His skin is coated in dirt and blood, God, so much blood, and Bucky's fingers twitch when Steve's gaze quickly passes over them. His clothes- not the black combat suit designed for a warrior, but an aged red hoodie and faded blue jeans, with a pair of dark boots that are currently unlaced- it's all caked in grime, and calling them dirty would be a severe understatement. Steve inhales, still shocked, but regrets it quickly. It seems like he hasn't bathed in months, and Jesus Christ he probably hasn't- and Steve steps to the side, opening the door wider, allowing the space in-between them to stay silent. He's shocked, to say the least, and he does his best to let that pass, since there's more important things happening than his being taken off guard.

             Bucky looks up at him, and then past him into the apartment, as if he hasn't already made a decision by coming here in the first place. Steve waits patiently, his gaze light and expectant on Bucky, and Bucky steps inside, limping the slightest bit. His face is mostly shaved aside from the stubble, which Steve finds a little surprising, but his hair is as long as he remembers it- maybe a little longer, but not by much, even if it's got blood in it now as well.

             For someone trained so heavily with stealth, his footsteps are surprisingly leaden, the thick soles of his boots knocking against the wooden floors haphazardly. Steve shuts the door behind them, his movements slow as to not startle his friend, but Bucky isn't paying much attention anyways. He looks around the room, taking in it's details, a far-off look in his eyes.

             Steve tries to say something again, but is still at a loss. Bucky turns slowly, gazing around the tidy apartment, until he stops and looks down at himself. His expression is bordering on confused, maybe a little on guilty too, for some reason- and then he looks over to Steve's shoes, brow creased in thought.

             "Bucky?" Steve asks quietly.

             Bucky looks up, meeting his eyes, expression reading as if he'd almost entirely forgotten that he wasn't alone. He looks down at himself again, a soft exhale passing through his lips. He pauses.

             "'M not… really him. Not clean, you know." He mumbles, half to himself. Steve's unsure if he's talking about the literal or hypothetical blood on his hands, if he means the grime on him presently or if he's referring to the things he's done- so Steve hesitates, a little uncertain how to respond, so after a second he blinks and asks slowly, "Shower?"

             Steve immediately feels stupid, saying the first thing that popped into his head, but Bucky seems to think over it for a second, gaze lost like he's trying to remember what that word even means. It takes a moment before he absently nods.

             Steve nods back dumbly, even if Bucky's not looking at him to really see it anyways, and moves past him. He exhales, making his way down the short hallway and opening the door to his room, doing so quietly even if he's not fully sure why- like Bucky's confused silence would maximize any sound in the world by ten, and any sudden noise would be enough to deafen. He opens his dresser, finding clothes that could fit Bucky, until he settles on a black t-shirt and pair of grey sweatpants. He tries not to hurry either, feeling like going fast would unsettle the atmosphere Bucky's presence has created, but feeling shaky, like Bucky's gonna disappear on him again at any second unless Steve gets back there right now. He brings the clothes with him into the hallway, and peeks his head around the corner to see into the living room.

             "Bucky?"

             Bucky turns to look at him.

             Steve mutters a soft 'c'mon', and inclines his head for Bucky to follow him.

             Steve steps into the bathroom, flicking the light switch on and putting the clothes on the cream-colored counter, and Bucky steps in after him. It's spacious enough for them not to bump into each other, Bucky standing quietly by the wall and Steve opening a small package from a drawer holding an extra toothbrush, before he sets it down on the counter too, by the sink, and moves to turn the shower on. Bucky seems a little more confident with Steve on the other side of the room, even if the room isn't the largest space in the world. He steps forward, reaches out to drag his metal fingertips over the cotton fabric of the shirt, his gaze still a little distant and now shifting over to the toothbrush- Steve had set it out just in case, really, even though before Bucky had seemed fine on that front at least. Bucky trails his gaze up to the wide mirror then, and his hand stills in mid-air.

             Steve isn't sure what Bucky sees or what he gets from it, but after a moment of taking in his appearance, something in his expression breaks a little, shattering, and it reminds Steve far too much of how Bucky looked at him before, on the helicarrier- and a part of him would prefer to just not think about that, feeling as if his energy is better spent on helping Bucky with whatever he wants anyways.

             Bucky doesn't quite jump when the sharp sound of water hitting tile fills the space, but he startles the slightest bit, so small Steve just barely notices. He doesn't comment on it, just puts one hand under the water as the other adjusts the temperature, letting it rise to a soothing warmth, with mist rising from over the top of the shower's door from the heat.

             A faded yellow towel is folded on the silver rack by the the shower, and Steve nods to it.

             "You can use that one, alright?" He asks, his voice quiet enough to almost be drowned out by the water.

             Bucky looks at Steve, to the towel, and back. He nods.

             Steve smiles, just barely, and nods back. "Okay. I'll just be in the other room, alright?"

             Bucky nods again.

             "And-" Steve starts. He looks Bucky up and down. He's still muscular, incredibly so, and aside from his disheveled state looks overall fine- but Steve asks anyways, just to make sure, "when was the last time you ate?"

             Bucky looks down a bit, thoughtful, before he simply shrugs.

             He looks up at Steve again, and Steve's brow furrows.

             "Yeah, okay, I'll-" he pauses. "I'll go and make something then."

             It takes another quiet moment, but then Bucky nods once more, still choosing to remain silent, and Steve doesn't push.

             "Okay." He says, smiling softly again, as he steps past Bucky and out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

             The water is muffled behind the door, and the door shuts with a soft click- and Steve stands there for a few seconds, thinking about how Bucky is in his bathroom, until he also remembers he's supposed to be in the kitchen instead. He sighs, his breath heavy, and he pushes off from when he leans back against the door.

             This wasn't how he expected today to go, but complaining is the very last thing Steve feels like doing at the moment.

             When he enters the kitchen, he looks around, more clueless about what to do than he'd like to admit. He opens the fridge, drawers, and cabinets to see what's inside, and 'hey, Bucky likes pasta right?' he thinks, trying to convince himself he's more sure about it than he really is. So he gets that ready, sets water onto the stove. It takes a while before it starts boiling, but when it does, he sets to stirring the pasta in the pot, and decides in the back of his mind to just heat the sauce up in the microwave- because this, right here, is the extent of his cooking abilities. Steve Rogers is someone who can survive a crash into the ocean, aid in taking down one of the world's most sinister and evil organizations, and help save the world as a whole by fighting against an alien invasion- but Steve Rogers is someone who can't cook for the life of them. It's never been much cause to bother him until now, but with the state Bucky's in Steve doesn't think he'll mind much. He stirs the pasta on autopilot, only really paying attention to the sound of the running shower and what's going on in his head.

             After a few more minutes, he puts the sauce in the microwave and leans against the counter. The water on the stove bubbles up enthusiastically, vapor rising up above. He breathes in deep, and clutches the counter harder just to keep himself grounded. He doesn't know how long he stands there, but soon enough a small cracking sound comes from below his palm, and he draws his hand away. He didn't think he was clutching the edge of the counter that hard, but he's too caught up in his own thoughts to pay attention anyways. He goes to stir the pasta more, the action half-hearted. He stops the microwave before it can beep, knowing he won't like the sudden noise, and after a while he pours the contents of the pot into a strainer over the sink. When the food's all set out on the counter, he sits on a wooden stool next to it, leg bouncing up and down nervously. ' _He's been through a lot lately,'_ Steve thinks to himself. _'just needs… a bit of time._ '

            So he sits there, not touching the food- not hungry, but even if he was he'd wait- and trying to distract himself with thoughts of the weather, and baseball, and anything else that dulls in comparison to what's just happened to him, what is now in his shower, and worry bubbles up a little more, because Bucky's been in there a while now and 'is he okay?'

             He shakes himself out of it, knowing he's becoming far too paranoid, and makes himself stay in place- for approximately 5 more miserable minutes, before he gets up and justifies going to quickly check on Bucky.

             And yes, he feels like an idiot, and yes, he also feels worried, now making his way past the living room and into the hallway, walking down it to reach the bathroom.

             He pauses before knocking. "Bucky, are you okay?"

             He waits a moment, and there's no reply.

             "Bucky?" He asks again, panic biting the edges of his voice.

             Now Steve knows he's not one to get neurotic over anything, it's just not him, but _oh my God, what if he somehow left_ burns through his mind and he huffs, pushing back that thought.

             "Buck?" He knocks again, louder this time, because maybe Bucky just didn't hear the first time. There's still no reply, and he speaks again.

              "I'm gonna- I'm gonna come in, okay?"

             There's yet again no reply, but he doesn't really expect one this time. He turns the door handle, still unlocked, he notes, and hesitantly walks through the door. The room is a hell of a lot hotter than he expected, the mirror fogged up at every inch, with steam rising from the top of the shower like a backwards waterfall.

             "Whoa," he says absently. He leaves the door open behind him, only by a few inches, just to let some of the heat out. There's no dirty clothes on the floor, no red hoodie, blue jeans, or combat boots, and Steve can make out the shape of Bucky through the shower door. Something in Steve breaks when he sees Bucky, still fully dressed and curled up sitting on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and letting his head fall forward. Steve steps up and opens the door, surprised by the wave of heat that rolls over him.

             "Hey, Buck."

             Bucky doesn't give any indication that he's heard, his only movements being the harsh rise and fall of his chest and back.             

             Steve steps halfway in, and kneels down. Drops of water- so hot it practically burns him, certainly hotter than he'd set it for- bounce off of the tiles and hit his exposed skin and clothes. The right part of his pants, to the knee and below, practically gets soaked through by where it touches the floor, but he pays none of it any mind, looking intently at Bucky. He reaches his hand out, knowing it's not the smartest idea, and places it on Bucky's shoulder.

             Bucky doesn't jump and attack like Steve half expects, just continues to sit under the burning water like it's nothing, and Steve moves to turn the dial a bit.

             "No-" Bucky says suddenly, cutting himself off, and Steve immediately pulls his hand away from the dial.

             "Okay, I won't."

             "I-" Bucky inhales harshly, the loud breath sounding angry. Not at Steve though. At himself, possibly.

             "Just-" he starts again. "don't change it too much."

             "I won't change it at all."

             "No, it's fine, just-" He exhales sharply through his teeth. "just do it, I don't-"

             He stops his sentence there, and Steve waits for another second, waiting to see if he'll continue on. He doesn't, and Steve moves his hand off Bucky's shoulder to turn the dial. He feels the water, sensing the satisfying change between searing to simply hot, and he pulls away.

             "Is that okay?"

             Bucky makes a small noise in the back of his throat. He nods.

             "Okay." Steve says.

             He waits to see if there's anything else Bucky wants to say, but the other man remains stubbornly quiet.

             "And, y'know, just to inform you, you're usually supposed to take your clothes off when you shower-"

             A soft breath escapes Bucky, hitching his chest up a fraction, like a quiet laugh, or a chuckle with hardly any force behind it. Every moment passing he feels the smallest bit like his old self again, even if he's still not close to being who he was before, but regardless, the old word he'd used all the time then spills over his tongue-

             "...Shut up, punk."

             Steve's breath stutters a little, and he smiles. Not full on, not with teeth or laughter to follow, but an upwards quirk of lips that lights up his eyes just a little more. Bucky glances away.

             "Well, I'm gonna-" Steve motions behind him, and moves to stand.

             "I-" Bucky starts, a little louder than he meant to. Steve stares down at him, halfway between crouching and standing.

             "Yeah?"

             "You could-" Bucky swallows. "you could stay."

             Steve's brow knits together. "Uh- you don't want some privacy?"

             Bucky shrugs. "We've- you've seen me before."

             Steve stands up straight. "Yeah, I know-" his jaw clenches. Truthfully, he'd love to take up the offer, but he's not sure how his body would react, and Bucky shouldn't have to deal with that right now. But he has seen Bucky before. And Bucky's seen him. Mostly before the serum, he reminds himself, but a couple times here and there afterward. It hadn't meant anything, and he knows that a little too well for his tastes. And now it wouldn't mean anything either. He looks down at Bucky, who looks up at him.

             Bucky's breath is still comes in far too harshly. "Forget about it."

             And with that, Steve can't help the stab of guilt in his gut- and he blinks. He sighs, before toeing his shoes off.

             "What're you doing?" Bucky asks.

             "I'm getting in, jerk."

             "You don't have to-"

             "It's fine. You don't want to be alone. You don't have to be." Steve says, taking off his socks.

             "Well, if you're uncomfortable-"

             "M'not, just- I dunno, thought you'd just want to be by yourself."

             Bucky closes his eyes. "I've been by myself for a while now."

             Steve's movements slow to a halt. "So you've gotten used to it?"

             "No," Bucky says. "I've gotten sick of it."

             Steve, for a few more moments, stares down at him, not speaking. He nods then, and begins to unbutton his shirt.

             Bucky sucks in an unsteady breath, following the movements of Steve's hands. Steve throws him a glance. "You okay?"

             "Fine," Bucky says roughly, watching the fabric fall past Steve's shoulders. He swallows.

             Steve moves lower then, unbuckling his belt and tossing it to the floor by his shoes. He unbuttons his pants, works the zipper down- Bucky swears to God this is all going in slow motion.

             Steve looks down at him, concerned. "You sure you're oka-"

             "Christ, Rogers, m'fine," he interrupts, tearing his gaze away.

             "Just checking," Steve shrugs. "You look really red. You sure you don't wanna turn the temperature down more?"

             "Positive." He says immediately. "I don't-" He stops. Steve doesn't push for him to continue, but he does so regardless, with a quieter, "I don't really like the cold."

             Steve pauses, not sure how to respond. Bucky shrugs.

             "Guess it's just another thing I got sick of."

             An light exhale rushes past Steve's lips. "That's understandable."

            Bucky grunts, and gives no other response. When he turns to look at Steve a few moments later, he's met with golden skin, chiseled abs, and then lower, down to Steve's-

             He looks away again, gluing his eyes to the tiles of the shower wall. Steve steps in and shuts the door behind him, bringing them in much closer proximity. And God, Bucky knows he's the one who asked Steve to do this, asked Steve to stay- and he mentally hits himself- _what the fuck was I thinking?_

Steve crouches down, beside Bucky.

             "Now you." He says softly, tugging on the red fabric of his hoodie.

             Bucky hesitates. Then he nods. Exhales. "Okay."

             He pulls the zipper down, and he feels stupid, but he peels the fabric away from him, because he didn't realize until recently just how long it'd been since his last attempt to wash the literal blood off his hands. He pulls the t-shirt he had on underneath over his head. He sets the articles of clothing beside him, next to Steve.

             He then does his boots, slipping them off quickly, and stuffing his socks inside them.

             Steve simply picks everything up and tosses them outside the door. Bucky can hear the wet plop of moisture hitting tile, and he says, "You're gonna have to clean that up later."

             "Later," Steve repeats, his voice a little distant.

             Bucky opens his mouth again, but nothing really comes out anyways, so he leans forward, gets onto his knees and raises himself up a bit, and unbuttons his jeans. _Jesus, they're a mess_ , he notes, taking in the coated blood, dirt stains, and shallow rips and tears for the first time. He pulls down the zipper, and he doesn't hear the small hitch of breath behind him. He pulls the fabric down, past his backside and down his thighs, and he brings his knees up off the floor one at a time to slip the jeans past them.

             He's about to twist to sit down, and slip the jeans past his ankles on his own- but he's taken a bit by surprise when Steve suddenly decides to lend a helping hand, grabbing his pants and gently tugging them off the rest of the way, and he keeps himself from falling over by placing his hand flat against the wall in front of him.

             He feels the blood rushing downwards, and gulps. He hears the jeans being tossed out too, with everything else. Then the shower door is shut again.

             He can hear Steve shuffling closer, and Bucky doesn't move-

             Steve tugs gently on the top of his soaked boxer-briefs.

             "Now these," he says quietly.

             And Bucky knows, if he turns around it'll be obvious, so he stays in place, hands against the wall with his head tilted down, trying to catch his breath.

             A moment of silence passes between them, before Steve tentatively says, "Bucky?"

             Bucky doesn't respond, and Steve decides not to push him on that front. Instead, he moves closer.

             Bucky's toes are curled under him, propping up his feet on the shower floor, and he's halfway to standing from where he's on his knees. He doesn't expect it when Steve loosely grips his hips and gently tugs him down to his level, but he goes anyways, sitting back onto his haunches and moving his metal hand to press his knuckles into the wall next to him.

             He gulps; inhales.

             Steve pushes his knees back onto the ground, and Bucky can feel the warmth of him on his back. At first it'd be easy to mistake his heat for the hot water pouring down on them, but something about it feels a little more familiar; a little more natural. Steve's hands stay on his knees, not moving upwards but not moving off either.

             He closes his eyes. Don't get any ideas, Barnes, he thinks. He tries to focus on the words rather than anything Steve. But everything is Steve right now, and he can feel the air leaving his tight lungs. It's not completely pleasant, but he makes himself do it anyways.

             And then Steve raises his left hand off his knee, raises it to his shoulder instead, and gently traces a fingertip along the seam of where metal meets flesh. Something about it is far too intimate, but Bucky lets him, turning his head to look halfway over his other shoulder, to see Steve's gaze following his finger.

             And _God_ , Bucky hates that, feels the burning twist of shame coiling in his gut- he shuts his eyes again, inhales again, tries to take his mind elsewhere again.

             Steve scoots closer, his chest not quite having met Bucky's back yet, but he moves the hand on his shoulder down, traces it down his spine, and Jesus Christ, it's burning up in here, but he shivers anyways. He can feel his cock hardening under the tight fabric of his underwear, and Steve doesn't help the situation at all when he traces his right hand up Bucky's thigh, not going to his crotch but his hip instead. Each of Steve's hands grip his hips on either side.

             Bucky's exhale is a little too loud and far too unsteady for his tastes, but he lets his hand slide down the wall and back down to his side. His knuckles brush lightly over Steve's inner thigh, just above the knee, from how Steve's spread his legs to bracket Bucky's own without actually touching. It's accidental, but he doesn't move his hand at all. Not upwards, and not away. It's the best he can do right now, he finds, and he relaxes back, straightening his spine.

             Steve lets out a strangled sound, not too loud in the heat of the room, and hesitantly reaches past Bucky to grab a bottle of body soap on the edge of the shower. He blocks some of the water before it hits Bucky's back, having placed himself mostly between Bucky and the shower head's aim, but a river of hot water runs down his flesh when Steve leans to the side. He leans into it, until his the back of his shoulder meets the front of Steve's own.

             Then Steve leans back a bit, opening the bottle. A sharp scent of sweet apples and spicy cinnamon floats by, and it's a little off, maybe a little too artificial for his tastes, but it reminds him of apple pie and just how much he enjoyed cooking when possible, before any of this happened- a fact he wouldn't have remembered ten, twenty, fifty years ago, and one he wouldn't have admitted to just over seventy years ago. It seems so small now, in this world where there's life, death, and the small stages in-between, that one man just simply finds joy in making something in that way. Used to, anyways. He pushes the thought out of his mind, and inhales.

             After a moment, Steve sets the bottle down by him, cap still open, before he places his palm against Bucky's back and begins to work the soap up to a lather. His hands, both now, smooth the bubbles onto his skin, months of dirt and grime falling to pieces at his fingertips. Bucky leans back again, the smallest fraction, moving into the touch.

             Steve's touch is gentle but effective on him, his hands going higher until his fingers tangle in his hair- messy, he knows, and not washed for a while, so Steve adds a little more soap and continues his work like there's nothing else he'd rather be doing. Bucky's head falls back a bit, leaning into the hands running over his scalp, and hums contentedly. He's almost purring at this point, if that's possible at all, his eyes slipping closed and his breath evening out. He feels a little electrified at Steve's hands on him, and he's not even come close to forgetting that Steve's naked behind him, but these are the opposite of problems, and it's the most ideal situation he's been in for as long as he can remember. After another drawn out minute, Steve shifts over again, letting the water fall over Bucky, and Bucky leans back a bit more to let the suds wash away, noting how nice the temperature is now. It was far too hot before, but it was grounding, too. A distraction. Steve proves to be a far better distraction, but he doesn't even consider voicing that out loud. He wraps up that thought as Steve lathers more soap on his hands, leaning back into place, and Bucky leans a little more forward to give him room.

            Steve now brings his fingertips up to trail across the skin of his back, his progress a little slower than it really needs to be, but neither of them make comment, and he continues on at his pace. He moves down, presses his palms flat against his lower back and trails them slowly upward from there, bubbles following the movement, and when he reaches the top, he grips Bucky's shoulders and steadily begins the knead his thumbs through the knots near his shoulder blades. Bucky's mouth falls open the slightest bit, and he sucks a quick breath in, air rushing over his tongue and filling his lungs. He holds back a sound about to slip past his lips, his eyes falling closed again, his brow creasing faintly as he concentrates on Steve's hands on him.

             And they stay like that for a little while. Steve trailing his hands slowly down the expanse of Bucky's back, Steve working through each of the knots and kinks under his skin- and Bucky might see a little bit of irony in this, taking in just how much Steve's gotten under his skin himself, but there's not much that he can focus on besides _'Steve- hands- skin- **fuck-** '_ as he shifts tentatively and let's the sound of the shower drown out the noise in his head. It's breathtakingly slow, sending shivers through him the lower Steve goes, and he can feel himself somehow relaxing and seizing up at the same time, with the muscles of his back loosening but his mind doing it's best to get a grip and hold on, don't do anything stupid- but he can feel himself drifting off, not into sleep but into a blissful daze where nothing else exists but this little space where they stay right now.

             Steve's hands go past each knot in his back, his fingers paying careful attention to every single inch they go by, and when he reaches the small of Bucky's back, his balls his hands into fists and simply presses them into Bucky's skin, the touch gentle and a little desperate when Steve leans in a little, and Bucky can feel the air of an exhale drag across the back of his neck, goosebumps raising from the sudden coolness of it.             Then Steve reaches for the bottle of soap again, leaning to the side and letting the water hit Bucky directly, letting it trail over his skin and wash away the soap and grime, and Bucky registers in the back of his mind that he's still wearing his underwear, faintly wonders why until- oh yeah, that situation's still going on- and he opens his eyes, half-lidded and dazed as he does his best to ignore the ever-rising arousal in his veins.

             Steve moves back and begins up a lather onto his upper right arm, which isn't as bad as his forearm, but is still much dirtier than it really should be- and Steve moves swifter here, at a pace Bucky's still not able to call fast, but quicker than it was when Steve slid his palms over his back as if it'd been the only thing left that'd he'd want to do in the world. And Bucky can understand that, because as he feels the filth fall away from his arm by Steve's careful hands, he wouldn't really mind if this was all that's left for them either. Steve grabs the bottle again, squeezing more soap out of it, and he begins his work on moving his way to the lower part of his arm, movements slick and kind as he shifts to his side and lets the water slip down Bucky's skin to follow the trail of his hands. He caresses upwards and downwards on his forearm now, already past his elbow and moving to his wrists, then his hands. Bucky glances halfway over his shoulder and sees Steve's brow furrowed in concentration, his hands rubbing soft circles into his palm, in-between his fingers and on the top part of his hand, and then Steve intertwines their fingers and holds Bucky's palm upwards, still kneading gentle circles into it, more for comfort now than to get any leftover mud or blood off- and it helps, grounding Bucky just a little bit more. The soap's gone from him for the most part now. He looks down at their hands, until Steve pulls away, a few moments later.

             He pauses then, and Bucky looks over his shoulder again, not quite meeting Steve's eyes.

             "What?"

             Steve opens his mouth, pauses, and then goes again. "Just- do you want me to do the other arm?"

             Bucky hesitates before shrugging. He feels a little sick at that, like Steve would be disgusted to touch the metal, but he only replies, "If you wanna."

             "Oh-" Steve says. "So the soap's going to be okay on it?"

             And Bucky meets his eyes then, just for a brief moment, and a small smile tugs at his lips. _It's not that he's disgusted, he's worried it'll break-_ and the ill feeling dissipates. He faintly scoffs out a half-hearted laugh. "Jesus, Rogers, it's not like my arm's delicate. If it can stand me diving into the ocean to save a punk like you, it can stand a little bit of soap, y'know."

             Steve blushes faintly, and rolls his eyes. "Jerk."

            Bucky hums softly. "So I've been told," he mumbles, looking away again.

             When Steve sets to work on Bucky's left arm, he's reverent with his touch, and a little more hesitant. Bucky doesn't mind it, glad he has the ability to still feel Steve moving his hands over him, even if that piece of him is metal. The mess comes off of the metal as easy it did his skin, and the water washes it away quickly. For a minute or so after he's wiped all of the muck off, he continues to trail his fingertips lightly up and down the arm, his shallow breaths hitting Bucky's upper back. Bucky can still feel that pull towards Steve, that feeling that digs into his skin and makes his blood rush south- but he keeps it under the surface, half of him repressing it and the other half doing it's best to ignore it. It feels like walking a tightrope, and Bucky learned to hate falling down a long time ago. He exhales, shaky. He's not expecting it when Steve slides his arms under his own, wrapping his arms around his torso and reaching his hands up to lay them over his collarbones.

             "Wha-"

             "Chest now," Steve mumbles.

             A small sound leaves the back of Bucky's throat as Steve begins to move his hands, and his mind is alerting him, _James Buchanan Barnes, you great fucking idiot, this is a code red, Jesus Christ-_ but the loud sound of his heartbeat and water hitting skin does more than enough to make him not pay attention. The soap becomes a smooth foam underneath Steve's palms, his hands tracing tantalizingly slow over his chest, working his way down- and his thumb brushes lightly over one of Bucky's nipples, and there's no way that Steve didn't just hear his sharp intake of breath- and he keeps going down, taking his own sweet time, and Bucky revels in this even though, in the back of his mind, his insecurities yell at him that this'll only end badly.

             He doesn't speak up, doesn't really think he could if he tried anyways, just internally debates over whether to lean back into Steve's chest or to lean forward into his touch. He stays locked in place, not able to reach an answer as Steve's hand trailing lower holds his mind at bay, and he's rock hard now, the bulge in the wet fabric covering him painfully obvious. He can feel the pulse of his heart echoing through him- mainly in his cock, which is where all the blood's gone anyways, and Bucky spares himself a small moment to fantasize about Steve's hands not stopping, not faltering- sliding straight down, reaching under the fabric-

             -and that's a road he can't go down, right now. Maybe a little too risky or just a little too stupid, because he's already far gone enough without any fantasizing. Steve sets his chin on Bucky's shoulder, having leaned forward somewhat, and God, the only thing left is for him to do is look down, to see just how much he can affect him. But another beat passes, then another, and one more, and Steve doesn't look down during it, his hands now drawing just past his navel. Bucky relaxes by a fraction after those three moments, his head falling back onto Steve's shoulder, and a small sound slips out of his mouth without his permission. Steve catches it, his ear not far from Bucky's lips- and Bucky wants to turn his head, nibble on his earlobe, and then go down further. But he doesn't, and Steve catches the sound, before he pauses and looks down. Bucky shuts his eyes, prepared for an awkward shove away rather than Steve lashing out- Steve's too kind to be mean about it, would give Bucky a stilted letdown, and if Bucky's being honest, that'd be even worse. What he doesn't expect are for Steve's hands to still, just for a second, the pause barely noticeable, until he drags his left hand down and palms Bucky through the fabric.

             Bucky's mouth drops open, an audible gasp emitting from him, and Steve tightens his right arm over his lower torso as he begins to move his other hand, rubbing Bucky in slow motions- _back, and forth, back, and forth_ \- Bucky hitches his hips up, desperate for more pressure. Steve turns his head to the side, noses at the line of Bucky's slack jaw, before he raises his lips to the soft spot behind his ear. Bucky groans when he feels the press of Steve's mouth against his skin. He can feel himself getting slightly frantic, for so many years only ever having a small taste of this here and there- an accidental brush of hands, eye contact that lasted a little too long, a few times where he heard Steve's muffled moans as he got himself off and didn't know Bucky could hear him- fuck. Yes, he'd gotten very small tastes of this before, but now, with Steve rubbing him through his underwear, the feel of his arm tightened possessively around him, his breath hot and heavy against the exposed skin of his neck- Bucky can feels the beginnings of an overdose, and he doesn't ever want it to stop.

             Steve mouths at his neck, his tongue caressing his skin, smooth and perfect, and he scoots closer. He raises himself up the slightest bit, raising the slightest bit above Bucky, as he presses his his inner thighs and hips against him, and Bucky shuts his mouth with an audible click when he feels Steve's arousal against the small of his back. He inhales, lips pressed tightly together, and he arches into Steve's touch-

             "Fuck." Steve says quietly, his voice low. And Bucky wants to make a joke, talk about how he's barely ever heard Steve cuss in their entire lives- And we've lived a long time, Rogers, don't deny it- but then Steve moves his right arm down, hooking his fingers into the band of the boxer-briefs, and Bucky looses the breath to say anything anyways. Steve moves his other hand too, and Bucky lets out an annoyed sound before Steve's pulling the fabric down, showing the last few covered inches of skin bit-by-bit as Bucky raises up slightly to get it off faster, then brings up his knees one by one- and it's a little awkward, they bump into each other at one point- but mainly it's just hurried, with them being too caught up in what's happening to give a flying fuck about finesse, and when Steve finally pulls it off he gracelessly tosses it behind them and lines back up again with Bucky, who's bracing himself with his left hand against the wall. Steve presses a kiss against the back of his neck, and Bucky's chest expands on his deep breath, his hand dropping as they press up again, back to front, Bucky leaning back to meet Steve and Steve moving forward. He trails his lips and tongue to the right side of his neck, Bucky tilting his head to the side to give him better access, breath catching when Steve uses his teeth over his pulse point, which is racing, no doubt. He can feel the pounding of his heart in his chest and _Jesus Christ-_ in his cock, rock hard and leaking at the tip as he spreads his legs a little more, arches his back a little more, shuts his eyes a little more- and Steve's hands grip Bucky's sides hard enough to leave bruises. _God_ , he loves the thought of that- and he reaches his hands behind him a little to grab hold of Steve's thighs, palms and fingers spread wide as they can as he digs his nails into the warm skin there- at least, the nails from his right hand, not long and jagged enough to draw blood but enough to leave indentions of crescent moons in Steve's thigh, and Bucky needs to be touched soon or he's going to go _fucking insane-_

" _Steve_ -" He breathes.

             Steve hums, the sound low and throaty and sent straight down south for Bucky, and he straightens his back a little more, leans his head back onto Steve's shoulder. Steve crosses his arms over Bucky's chest, his hands trailing up to his shoulders until he traces them down again, over his collarbones and making Bucky whimper when he brushes over his nipples, then down further, slow over his abs and then trailing lightly through the dark hair leading down-

             And Steve, the fucker, _chuckles in his ear_ , and says, "We still need to clean you up some more."

             The words don't register with Bucky for a few seconds, the only thing he really notices is Steve's hands falling off his skin, away from the weight between his legs, and he groans, exasperated and aching, dammit.

             "What're you-" Bucky says.

             "Shhh," Steve whispers, the sound pressed into his shoulder as Steve makes it, and Bucky hears the bottle of soap being opened and closed again before Steve's hands appear again in front of him, curled around his torso and rubbing together to work the soap into a lather- and then he puts his hands between Bucky's spread thighs, palms down directly next to his crotch, then slides then down, suds following the trail his hands make.

             Steve's set his chin onto Bucky's left shoulder now, breathing down onto his collarbone, and Bucky lets out a worn sob, leaning his head back again and gasping when Steve sets his lips, tongue, and teeth to work on this side of his neck. Bucky's left arm lets go of the grip on Steve's thigh, now reaching back and up and carding through Steve's hair, the metal fingers tightening and loosening with every gasp and breath as Steve drives Bucky to the brink of insanity and Bucky simply let's him.

             Steve keeps working the soap over Bucky's skin, closer to Bucky's cock before he drags his hands away again, each time leaving Bucky trembling just a little bit more than before. At one point, right when Steve's hands close in, Bucky can't help raising his hips, and Steve guides his touch down to the backs of his thighs- Bucky scoffs, and the effect of it is tainted by how breathless it is, and he curls his fingers in Steve's hair.

             Later, in his sated retrospect, he'll realize that none of this lasted long at all- not nearly as long as he made it out to be, even if Steve's hands were moving agonizingly slow and he was the most breathless he'd ever been in his life- but now, Steve's hands are moving back up again, and Bucky's cock is heavy between his legs and fucking aching to be touched, his heartbeat humming through his veins as Steve- fucking finally- drags his hands to the heat in-between Bucky's thighs, the digits of his right hand wrapping around the base of Bucky's cock before giving him a slight squeeze, and sliding upward. Steve presses closer and begins a rhythm for them- his hand trailing hot over Bucky and him rubbing himself up against the curve of his lower back, and Bucky breathes a-

             " _Fuck, Steve_ -" he gasps out, his eyes pressing shut, teeth grinding together, as he bucks up into the heat of Steve's hand.

             Steve settles into the rhythm confidently, his other hand now pressing bruises into the skin of Bucky's hip as he gets him off, smoothing his thumb over the head of Bucky's cock, smearing the precum pearling at the tip- Bucky lets his head fall forward, opening his eyes- and the sight of Steve's hand wrapped around him is almost enough to finish him off then and there, so he bites his lower lip, hard.

             He watches Steve's hand sliding against him, up and down again, the friction between their skin hot and delicious. His breath stutters again, and he releases his lower lip from his teeth, bitten red and plump. His eyes roll back and he lets his head tilt backwards to rest on Steve's shoulder again. He groans, loud, and can't bring himself to beg Steve to move faster, the words lost somewhere in his veins- he feels like his blood is fucking singing, and he's completely at the mercy of the beautiful man glued to his back. At some point, maybe a second later or ten minutes later, Steve picks up the pace, his movements beginning to border on erratic- and Bucky loses himself in it, still bucking up into Steve's hand, mouth still hanging open, Steve's panting against his skin- the speed continues to pick up, Steve's grip tightening by a fraction, his continuous press into Bucky's back becoming more vigorous. Bucky can feel his muscles tightening, the heat below his gut coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, and he's on the edge- _fuck_ , he's close- closer and _closer now_ until Steve bites down hard on his shoulder, and then he's done for-

             White explodes behind his eyelids, overtaking his vision as his orgasm crashes powerfully into him, his muscles seizing up and tightening more, the heat in his gut flaring up like a firework and a loud moan coming from the back of his throat- and he's coming, hard and fast and jaw-dropping, and he's faintly aware of Steve following him over the edge behind him, can faintly feel his warm release coating the skin of his back, Steve yelling his name out like a prayer, his hand still working him through his own climax.

             It feels like forever and no time at all towards the end of it, when he begins to drift down again slowly, swallowing thickly and huffing, a small, sated smile on his lips. Steve still moves against him, only a little, riding out the last few waves of his orgasm, before he stills and Bucky leans back against him fully. Steve's arm loosens from where it'd been wrapped around him tight, still there but falling downwards and into his lap. He leans into Bucky, pressing his face into his hair and lazily kissing him there, the corners of his lips curling upwards.

             He sighs. They stay like that for another moment, and they both wonder if they should say anything- but they don't, when instead Bucky drags his hand to intertwine with Steve's, and they find that it's enough.

             They wash off- or mainly Bucky does, any parts that Steve might've missed as he doesn't help at all, rather pressing lazy kisses all over Bucky rather than soap, and Bucky huffs affectionately. They wait another minute before Steve reaches back and shuts the water off, and they climb out of the shower. They dry each other off with the towel, mostly just using it as an excuse to touch each other more, and then Bucky tugs on the clothes left out for him, a little too large but an incredible step up from what he'd had on before, which still sits wet on the floor a few feet away. Steve wraps the towel around his waist.

             In the hallway, as they pass Steve's room, Steve slows a bit. "I, uh- I made pasta."

             Bucky smiles. "Then what're we waiting for, cap?"

             Steve rolls his eyes, and tells him to go on into the kitchen. "I'm gonna put some clothes on real quick in here."

             "Well," Bucky says. "you don't have to."

             "Just-" he smiles. "just go on, alright? You don't have to wait for me either."

             Bucky smile doesn't drop as he turns, and when Steve goes back into the kitchen, now with a white t-shirt and boxers on, he sees Bucky with a fork in hand, eating the cake he'd bought earlier that day.

             Bucky looks up innocently, the left side of his mouth smeared in chocolate. "I found it in your fridge."

             Steve huffs out a laugh, and grabs a fork to join him.

             "So no pasta?"

            "No, that too."

             Steve looks at him. "You really don't remember the last time you ate?"

             Bucky pauses. "I'm just.. not sure." he says. "It doesn't matter anyways."

             And Steve decides to let the subject drop. He thinks of something else.

             "Oh, hey!" He says suddenly, grabbing the cake and balancing it with his right hand. "Grab the pasta and sauce if you want, but we're going into the living room."

             "Why?" Bucky asks, his mouth full.

             Steve doesn't answer, and he moves to set the cake down on the coffee table. He grabs the remote and turns on the TV, right when Bucky's walking in.

             "You're making me watch Harry Potter?" Bucky asks.

             "Yes! It's still on!" Steve says happily.

             "Uh-" Bucky smiles; chuckles softly. "alright, sure."

             Steve hums, digging his fork into the cake again, and Bucky sets the food on the table and goes to sit and lean into Steve. Steve smiles at him.

             They continue like that, watching movies and eating cake, Bucky complaining when Steve eats more of it than him and then not complaining when Steve kisses him simply to shut him up. He does, and Steve ends up lying on his back, Bucky laying over him, smiling into each others mouths and eventually falling asleep tangled up in one another.

             And Bucky still doesn't completely feel like he's who he used to be, but he knows that Steve's going to love him anyways.


End file.
